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Cotswold  Characters. 


Reprints  from 
The  Yale  Review. 


A  Book  of  Yale  Review  Verse, 
1917. 

War  Poems   from   The  Yale 
Review,  1918. 

War   Poems   from   The  Yale 
Review  (2d  Edition),  1919. 

Four  Americans,    by   Henry 
A.  Beers,  1919. 

American  and  British  Verse 
from  The  Yale  Review,  1920. 


COTS WOLD 

CHARACTERS 


BY 


JOHN   DRINKWATER 


With  Jive  engravings  on  wood  by  Paul  Nash. 


New  Haven, 
Yale  University  Press, 

London,  Humphrey  Milford,  Oxford  University  Press, 

Mdccccxxi. 


Copyright,  1921,  by  the  Yale  Publishing  Asso.,  Inc. 
Copyright,   1921,  by  the  Yale    University    Press. 

The  Publishers  wish  to  make  acknowledgment  to 

The  Sphere  and  to  The  Yale  Review  in  which  these 

sketches  have  appeared. 


Table  of  Contents. 


Foreword     .... 

7 

Thesigcr  Crowne^ 
The  Mason   . 

11 

Simon  Rodd, 

The  Fisherman 

19 

Rnfus  Clay, 

The  Foreigner 

27 

Pony, 

The  Footballer 

35 

Joe  Pentifer  and  Son    . 

47 

[5] 


Foreword. 

THE  Cotswold  country  is,  as  I  think, 
the  most  beautiful  in  England.  Not 
that  it  is  by  nature  more  lovely  than  that 
which,  perhaps,  any  county  can  show.  It 
is  a  commonplace  to  us  who  know  this 
small  country  of  ours  that  there  is  hardly 
any  stretch  of  twenty  miles  in  it  which 
does  not  flatter  us  in  the  belief  that  there 
is  no  more  tender  or  subtle  landscape  on 
earth.  But  the  Cotswolds,  especially  in  the 
more  secluded  corners,  have  the  added 
glory  of  an  almost  unbroken  tradition  of 
character  and  of  building.  The  country 
from  whicli  these  sketches  sprang  is  high 
up  above  the  great  Stroud  valley,  the 
neighborhood  of  the  famous  wool-stap- 
lers of  the  sixteenth  century,  when  the 
Cotswold  flocks  brought  those  merchants 
to  a  prosperity  which  they  spent  partly 
making  themselves  noble  dwelling-places 
out  of  the  lovely  Cotswold  stone.  The 
country  then  bred  a  great  race  of  masons, 
and  the  stock  has  never  died  out.  I  am 
myself  the  tenant  of  a  small  cottage  on  a 
[7] 


Foreword. 

byway  that  is  passed  by  a  stranger  hardly 
once  in  a  week.  It  is  four  rooms  big. 
Eighty  years  ago  two  of  them  were  built 
by  a  local  craftsman  who  knew  neither 
better  nor  worse  than  his  ancestors  nearly 
three  hundred  years  back.  And  then  ten 
years  ago  my  present  landlord  added  the 
other  two,  and  he,  again,  worked  with  the 
same  unquestioning  and  perfect  mastery. 
So  it  is  that  the  whole  countryside  is  cov- 
ered with  an  architecture  which  has  never 
lost  its  vitality.  It  is  not  a  question  of 
copying  with  skill  a  fine  tradition  gone 
by.  Here  w^e  have,  rather,  the  real  life 
which  consists  of  a  personal  contribution 
to  a  tradition  that  has  never  died  out.  And, 
as  it  is  in  the  building,  which  from  the 
great  manor  house  down  to  the  pigsties 
has  an  equal  dignity  because  of  this  un- 
broken succession  of  life,  so  it  is  with  the 
character  of  the  people.  The  Cotswold 
yeoman  is  as  unoriginal  and  as  new  and 
vital  as  an  oak  tree  or  a  starry  night.  In 
a  moment  a  little  outside  the  usual  habit 
of  my  work,  it  came  to  me  to  set  down  in 
[8] 


Foreword. 

prose  a  few  of  his  characteristics,  and  here 
is  the  result  with  a  due  sense  of  its  incom- 
pleteness, 

John  Drinkwater. 

London, 

August,  1921. 


[9] 


THESIGER    CROWNE, 
The  Mason. 


1EANING  with  arms  folded  upon  his 
J  garden  gate  by  which  hardly  any- 
body ever  passed,  Thesiger  Crowne  bade 
me  good  evening.  His  cottage  was  in  a  by- 
lane  of  a  village  that  is  in  itself  in  an  un- 
discovered pocket  of  the  Cotswolds.  He 
was  a  widow  man,  as  they  say,  and  one 
[11]        . 


Thesiger  Crowne. 


elderly  daughter  lived  with  him.  He 
looked  very  handsome  this  evening.  He 
had  a  stout  frame,  tall,  and  he  was  rather 
a  dandy,  with  the  dandy's  proper  respect 
for  a  natural  tradition.  He  was  a  yeoman 
villager  some  generations  deep,  and  he 
would  have  scorned  to  confuse  his  class 
with  any  other.  He  had  been  into  the 
market  town  to-daj^  so  that  his  dress  was 
as  it  might  be  Sunday,  with  a  lay  touch 
of  difference.  His  boots  were  of  the  sort 
in  which  he  had  years  ago  learnt  to  walk 
as  many  miles  as  might  be,  daily  in  all 
weathers.  His  corduroy  trousers,  origi- 
nally buff  in  color,  had  been  bleached  by 
repeated  washings.  Over  his  cotton  shirt, 
set  off  by  a  linen  collar  with  no  tie,  in 
place  of  a  coat  he  wore  a  sleeved  waist- 
coat, the  sleeves  of  lining  cloth,  the  rest 
of  a  dark  honey-colored  velveteen.  His 
very  white  hair  and  whiskers  surrounded 
a  very  red  face,  ample  but  well  shaped, 
and,  as  though  to  remind  some  of  us  who 
play  at  being  countrymen  what  the  real 
thing  is,  he  wore  a  hard  black  bowler  hat 
of  rather  fashionable  shape. 
[12] 


Thesiger  Crowne. 


"Good  evening,  Mr.  Crowne,"  I  re- 
plied. "I  hope  you're  well." 

"Well,  that  I  baint  so  much.  The  in- 
digestion it  is.  I  do  have  often  to  sit  up  in 
bed  of  a  niglit."  I  commiserated  with  him. 
I  asked  him  if  he  had  seen  a  doctor. 

"Doctors — no.  I've  made  a  shift  to  do 
without  they  so  far,  and  that's  a  deal  of 
time.  It's  a  rest  I  do  want.  If  I  live,  I 
shall  be  seventy-seven  come  Ciceter  ^lop.* 
I've  done  a  deal  of  hard  work  in  my  time, 
and  I  think  it  be  about  time  for  I  to  take 
a  rest.  Not  that  I  should  be  surprised, 
mark  you,  if  I  did  live  to  be  a  hundred 
and  two."  Presumably  the  record  for  the 
village  was  held  at  present  by  a  hundred 
and  one. 

A  deal  of  hard  work  in  his  time.  He  was 
a  mason,  one  of  the  old  Cotswold  breed, 
and  his  handiwork  is  in  every  town  and 
village  within  twenty  miles  of  the  hamlet 
that  had  been  his  home  for  seventy-seven 
years.  Even  beyond  that,  for  the  build- 

*  Ciceter  Mop  is  one  of  the  many  annual  Fairs  held 
in  the  small  towns  of  England.  Some  of  them  are 
many  generations  old. 

[13] 


Thesiger  Crowne. 


ers  recognized  his  skill,  and  he  had  been 
known  to  travel  on  his  trade  into  the  fur- 
ther midlands,  into  Sussex,  once  even  far 
across  into  Norfolk.  At  sixty-six,  he  told 
me,  he  had  had  a  job  that  for  eighteen 
weeks  meant  a  six-mile  walk  in  the  morn- 
ing, a  day's  work,  and  six  miles  home  at 
night.  He  had  never  been  out  of  England, 
and  I  talked  to  him  a  little  of  foreign 
countries.  "Did  you  ever  go  to  China, 
sir?"  Thesiger  had  a  gift  of  irony.  I  had 
to  confess  that  I  had  not  been  there.  "It 
must  be  a  rare  place,  China.  But  no  man 
can  go  everywhere.  That's  how  I  look  at 
it." 

He  had  a  grandson  living  in  the  vil- 
lage, one  who  had  fallen  from  the  high 
craft  of  masonry  to  miscellaneous  job- 
bing. Thesiger  remembered  that  when  he 
himself  was  a  boy  he  used  to  go  with  his 
father  to  work  in  a  near  town.  His  own 
wages  were  sixpence  a  week,  and  his 
father  drew  seven  shillings,  a  considerable 
share  of  which  was  paid  in  kind — pig's 
fry  and  chitlings.  He  remembered  his 
mother  washing  them  at  the  spring  and 
[14] 


Thesiger  Crowne. 


selling  them  to  people  on  the  spot.  Now 
his  grandson,  born  and  bred  in  the  same 
place,  had  been  asked  for  an  estimate  for 
whitewashing  four  cottage  rooms.  No 
painting  or  other  work  was  to  be  done. 
His  estimate  was  nineteen  pounds.  Hear- 
ing of  the  prices  that  were  being  paid,  he 
had  lost  his  head  and  estimated  wildly,  it 
is  true.  But  nineteen  pounds  for,  at  most, 
three  days'  work,  and  his  great  grand- 
father sixty-odd  years  ago  at  seven  shil- 
lings a  week,  partly  paid  in  kind.  It  is  a 
fantastic  epitome  of  the  wage  madness 
that  has  been  besetting  the  world. 

One  of  his  cheeks  was  furrowed  by  a 
deep  scar,  an  honorable  wound  from  a 
somewhat  strange  action  that  made  his- 
tory in  the  village  forty  years  since.  On  an 
outlying  road  had  stood  an  ancient  pest- 
house,  which,  during  an  outbreak  of  small- 
pox in  a  town  six  miles  away,  the  urban 
authorities  had  decided  to  appropriate  for 
the  severer  cases.  Indignation  in  Thesig- 
er's  village  at  once  rose  to  determined 
fury.  The  first  van  was  met  by  the  inhab- 
itants, the  horses  turned  on  the  road,  and 
[15] 


Thesiger  Crowne. 


the  driver  threatened  into  retreat.  One  of 
the  patients  died  on  the  return  journey. 
Open  war  followed,  and  the  van  came 
back  with  a  strong  police  escort.  Thesiger 
led  his  fellows,  indignation  now  in  full 
cry,  to  the  pest-house,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes the  building  was  in  flames.  The 
charred  ruins  are  still  there.  The  police 
saw  that  no  more  was  to  be  done,  but  in  a 
scuffle  before  they  left,  Thesiger  took  the 
mark  of  a  truncheon  on  his  cheek  for  life. 
And  he  and  four  others  helped  to  make 
the  reputation  of  a  defending  counsel, 
since  famous  in  legal  history,  at  the  next 
Gloucester  assizes. 

Thesiger  had  a  turn  for  reading.  His 
was  a  mixed  fare  of  out-of-date  history 
books  and  the  wilder  kind  of  romance. 
Out  of  this  learning  he  had  developed  a 
curious  but  rather  proud  little  self-decep- 
tion. He  told  me  he  was  descended  from 
Oliver  Cromwell.  He  offered  no  explana- 
tion of  his  dignity,  merely  asserting  it. 
But  tactful  inquiries  in  the  village  did  not 
result  in  any  support  of  his  claim.  Indeed, 
it  appeared  that  it  was  the  effect  rather  of 
[16] 


Thesisrer  Crowne. 


a  general  affinity  for  the  great  of  name 
than  of  any  particular  kinship.  It  seemed 
that  at  times  he  would  transfer  his  ances- 
tral honors  to  the  Duke  of  Marlborough, 
sometimes  to  Wat  Tyler,  and  on  one  up- 
roarious occasion  at  the  Chippendale 
Arms  he  had  been  heard  to  declare  with 
circumstantial  fervor  that  he  was  in  the 
direct  line  of  descent  from  Robinson 
Crusoe. 

Somewhere  back  in  his  family  history, 
a  century  and  more  ago,  had  been  a  trag- 
edy. There  had  been  a  case  of  sheep-steal- 
ing, a  broken-hearted  daughter,  a  betrayal, 
and  a  drowning.  I  fancy  to  myself  that  it 
was  Nan  Hardwick,  Mr.  Masefield's  Nan. 
Thesiger  reckons  that  those  were  callous 
times  anyway ;  you  had  to  be  built  of  hard 
stuff  then.  For  himself,  he  earned  a  pound 
a  week  until  he  stopped  regular  work. 
Now  he  is  seventy-seven,  and  to-morrow 
morning  he  will  walk  across  to  the  far  vil- 
lage to  draw  his  weekly  old-age  pension, 
ten  shillings.  Time  for  I  to  take  a  rest, 
indeed.  But  he  looks  good  for  his  hundred 
and  two  yet. 

[17] 


SIMON   RODD, 

The  Fisherman. 


SIMON  RODD'S  name  was  a  lucky 
accident.  He  was  eighty  years  old,  and 
lived  in  a  small  shop  at  Laneton,  a  little 
market  town  on  the  fringes  of  Oxford- 
shire. The  shop  was  now  managed  by  his 
son,  Simon  being  deaf  and  not  so  keen 
of  sight  as  he  was.  The  establishment 
[19] 


Simon  Rodd. 


dealt  in  a  vgiriegated  stock — stationery, 
cheap  jewelry,  popular  literature,  quack 
medicines,  peppermints,  photographic 
views,  gimcrack  ornaments.  In  these 
and  their  like  Simon  had  long  since 
ceased  to  take  any  interest.  They  were 
the  chaffer-wares  of  necessity,  and  had 
never  been  in  his  line.  But  a  pile  of 
cardboard  boxes  at  one  end  of  the  coun- 
ter always  kept  his  attention.  From  the 
inner  parlor,  where  he  sat  for  long  hours 
in  vacancy  or  meditation,  he  would  keep 
an  eye  on  them.  When  he  saw  a  cus- 
tomer's hand  move  towards  them,  he 
would  get  up  and  step  by  step  drift  into 
the  shop.  He  was  a  sleeping  partner  in 
the  business  now,  it  was  true,  but  no  one 
else  really  knew  about  those  boxes.  They 
contained  artificial  flies.  As  he  watched 
one  lid  after  another  being  taken  off,  dis- 
playing a  glorious  range  of  colored  wings, 
ginger-quills  and  iron-blues,  nut-brown 
alders,  snowy-white  coachmen  and  black 
gnats,  his  faded  eyes  would  lighten  with 
an  old  eagerness,  and  he  would  bide  his 
time. 

[20] 


Simon  Rodd. 


For  Simon  Rodd  was  a  fisherman.  Not 
like  Simon  Peter  who  caught  his  multi- 
tudes crudely  in  nets,  nor  as  those  who  go 
out  with  floats  and  worms,  tired  anglers, 
but  one  of  the  elect,  a  fly-fisherman,  and 
dry-fly  at  that.  Laneton  is  famous  for  its 
chalk  stream,  running  midway  across  the 
town  itself,  and  when  he  was  twelve 
Simon  had  cast  his  first  fly.  At  seventy- 
five  the  hand  had  grown  infirm,  and  he 
could  no  longer  see  the  cocked  wings 
floating  down  the  stream  towards  him.  So 
that  now  he  had  retired  to  the  parlor, 
listening  to  ignorance  in  the  shop  beyond, 
making  his  occasional  excursions  into  pub- 
licity when  the  fly-boxes  were  in  play. 
And  then  if  you  behaved  with  proper 
humility,  he  would  respond  and  give  out 
of  the  store  of  his  experience. 

I  turned  up  at  Laneton  in  May-fly  time, 
an  unbroken  novice.  Everybody,  I  knew, 
was  looking  amusedly  at  my  new  rod,  my 
new  bag,  my  new  waders  and  brogues. 
The  Boots  at  the  hotel  was  a  diplomat, 
assuming  that  all  my  old  gear  had  been 
worn  out  in  hard  service.  I  took  the  bold 
[21] 


Simon  Rodd. 


course,  and  confided  in  him  that  it  was 
my  first  equipment,  which  he  very  well 
knew.  Sitting  in  the  garden  at  tea,  I 
struck  up  an  acquaintance  with  an  old 
hand  who  had  flies  sprinkled  about  his  hat. 
Him  too  I  let  into  the  secret,  and  showed 
him  my  fly-box,  splendid  with  an  assort- 
ment of  plumed  and  speckled  May-flies 
from  London.  He  looked  rather  coldly 
upon  them,  but  spoke  civilly.  These  fel- 
lows are  not  bad  sorts,  they  remember 
sometimes  their  own  green  days.  He  rec- 
ommended a  visit  to  Simon  Rodd.  "He 
ties  a  special  fly  for  the  stream.  Get  the 
old  man  himself  if  you  can.  He  knows 
ten  times  as  much  about  it  as  his  son." 

I  stepped  across  the  road  to  the  shop. 
A  young  assistant  was  serving,  and  I 
asked  him  for  some  flies.  He  slid  the 
boxes  along  the  glass  counter  towards  me, 
and  left  me  to  my  choice.  I  lifted  a  lid, 
and  saw  nothing  very  likely.  Had  they 
any  May-flies?  An  under  box  was  pulled 
out,  and  there,  wing  and  hackle,  lay  a  pro- 
fusion of  dark,  silver-gray  beauties.  Were 
these  particularly  good  for  this  river?  Yes, 
[22] 


Simon  Rodd. 


they  were  the  Laneton  Marquis.  I  put  a 
few  on  the  palm  of  my  hand,  and  made  a 
pretense  of  critical  examination.  As  I  did 
so  I  was  aware  of  somebody  standing  in 
the  shadow  of  a  door  behind  the  assistant, 
waiting.  I  looked  up,  and  saw  an  old  man 
in  a  shiny  black  alpaca  coat.  He  observed 
my  critical  air  with  a  courteous  indiffer- 
ence. 

"Is  this  the  Laneton  Marquis?"  I  in- 
quired, by  way  of  an  opening. 

"Yes,"  said^  Simon  Rodd,  "that's  it." 
"I'm  told  it's  very  good  for  the  Chedd." 
"I've  done  pretty  well  with  it,  sir." 
Seeing  that  for  more  than  fifty  years  he 
had  taken  an  average  of  something  like 
four  brace  of  fish  a  day  with  this  fly  dur- 
ing the  May-fly  season,  it  was  not  too 
much  to  say.  I  capitulated  at  once.  "I'm 
afraid  I  don't  know  anything  about  this 
job.  What  do  you  advise?"  Immediately 
he  was  all  grace.  Near  the  town  I  was  to 
use  the  winged  variety,  further  up-stream, 
above    the    hut,    he    would    suggest    the 
hackle,   the   natural   fly   generally   being 
rather   spent  there.   In  the   evening  the 
[23] 


Simon  Rodd. 


hackle  all  along  the  river,  though  then 
sometimes  an  alder  was  good  even  while 
the  May-fly  was  up.  Would  I  mind  being 
shown  what  he  considered  the  best  way  of 
tying  the  fly  to  the  point  ?  I  should  be  very 
grateful.  With  trembling  fingers  and 
straining  eyes  he  threaded  the  gut,  deftly 
made  a  loop,  gave  a  little  tug,  and  handed 
it  to  me.  "You'll  find  that  after  a  day  or 
two  you  can  do  that  in  the  dark."  Skepti- 
cally I  thanked  him,  took  my  flies  of  his 
selection,  and  went  out.  "If  you  want  to 
know  anything,  perhaps  I  can  tell  you 
more  than  some  of  the  others." 

He  could  have  told  me,  but  I  could  not 
have  learnt.  He  had  lived  dry-fly  for  sixty 
years,  and  I  must  hope  for  half  of  that  to 
learn  half  that  he  could  tell.  For  he  could 
not  now  be  said  consciously  to  know  any- 
thing, it  was  all  nature  to  him.  Sometimes 
in  the  evening,  when  the  fishermen  had 
come  in,  I  would  see  Simon  Rodd  walk- 
ing, with  hurried  short  steps,  without  in- 
firmity, towards  the  river,  walking-stick 
in  hand.  One  night  I  followed  him  idly  in 
the  dusk.  He  came  to  the  river-bank  and 
[24] 


Simon  Rodd. 


stopped.  He  looked  up  and  down,  his 
eyes  covering  by  habit  the  water  that  he 
could  no  longer  see  clearly.  Then  he 
moved  on  slowly,  measuring  the  stream, 
here  and  there  leaning  out  towards  bushy 
channels,  sometimes  peering  intently  at 
what  seemed  to  be  a  sucking  at  the  surface 
of  the  water.  Presently  at  a  fast-running 
pool  below  a  stretch  of  stone  wall  he 
paused  again.  He  looked  across  for  a  few 
moments.  Then  his  right  elbow  went  to 
his  side,  the  walking-stick  was  raised  and, 
beautifully  timed  by  his  wrist,  went  to  and 
fro — one,  two,  three,  four — and  then  the 
cast  was  made.  I  knew  how  the  gut  flew 
full  out  to  the  end,  the  rod  well  up,  how 
perfectly  that  imaginary  fly  fell  thirty- 
five  feet  away  just  above  the  rising  fish. 
He  was  about  to  strike  when  he  saw  me. 
In  the  fading  light  I  had  come  up  nearer 
to  him  than  I  realized.  I  begged  his  par- 
don. He  was  not  at  all  put  out.  "There 
was  always  a  big  one  there,"  he  said.  "I 
know,  but  I  find  it  difficult  to  get  my  fly 
over  so  far."  "Difficult,"  he  answered, 
"why  no — it's  like  this" — and  again  the 
[25] 


Simon  Rodd. 


walking-stick  flickered  in  the  dusk,  and 
again  the  fly  fell  two  feet  above  the  rise, 
as  livingly  plain  as  though  the  line  were 
truly  running  through  its  rod  firmly  held 
in  the  hand  that  could  never  be  firm  again. 


[26] 


RUFUS   CLAY, 

The  Foreigner. 


ONE  evening  as  I  was  walking  down 
the  road  with  Thesiger  Crowne,  we 
passed  a  long-striding,  heavily  bearded 
man,  wearing  a  slouch  hat,  haggy  coat  and 
trousers,  and  shabby  black  leggings  fall- 
ing well  down  on  to  his  boots.  He  was 
carrying  a  gun,  and  beside  him  trotted  a 
[27] 


Rufus  Clay. 

large  retriever  dog.  I  had  not  seen  him 
before. 

"Who  is  that?"  I  inquired  of  Thesiger. 

"Rufus  Clay,"  he  answered.  "He's  a 
foreigner." 

Signs  of  red  hair  at  birth  may  have  en- 
couraged his  parents  to  call  him  Rufus, 
but  it  certainly  turned  out  to  be  a  mis- 
nomer. His  full  beard  was  black,  and  his 
complexion  swarthy,  but  I  thought  the 
man  looked  English. 

"A  foreigner?  What  is  he — a  Span- 
iard?" 

"Spaniard?"  said  Thesiger.  "No.  He 
comes  from  Pins  wick." 

"You  mean  he  lives  there?" 

"No.  He  do  not  live  there.  He  do  live 
here." 

Pinswick  is  a  village  seventeen  miles 
away,  on  the  other  side  of  the  county.  I 
was  puzzled. 

"But  vou  said  he  was  a  foreigner." 

"Yes,  he  be  a  foreigner.  He's  a  Pins- 
wicker." 

"But  how  long  has  he  lived  here?"  I 
persisted. 

[28] 


Rufus  Clay. 

"Oh,  not  above  ten  or  twelve  years." 
I  had  been  Thesiger's  neighbor  for 
eighteen  months,  and  I  came  from  five 
counties  away.  As  he  spoke,  I  supposed 
that  he  must  look  upon  me  as  something 
out  of  the  sea  at  least,  though  we  always 
seemed  to  be  very  good  friends.  I  discov- 
ered that  nothing  short  of  two  genera- 
tions of  unbroken  tenure  constitutes  na- 
tive rights.  Settlers,  if  only  from  the  next 
parish,  are  foreigners,  and  openly  called 
so.  For  casual  pass-the-time-of-day  ac- 
quaintance, even  for  neighborly  talk,  this 
is  no  particular  disability,  but  if  you 
come  with  the  intention  of  carrying  on 
business,  you  are  likely  to  be  disillusioned, 
as  Rufus  Clay  learnt. 

A  few  days  later  I  found  his  house.  It 
was  buried  behind  high  walls,  not  visible 
from  the  road.  There  was  nothing  myste- 
rious about  it,  but  unless  you  had  special 
occasion  to  go  in,  it  was  out  of  sight  and 
out  of  mind.  Rufus  had  set  up  as  a  cob- 
bler, coming  to  the  place  when  he  was 
between  forty  and  fifty,  with  a  small  bag 
full  of  savings.  On  a  broken  board  over 
[29] 


Rufus  Clay. 

the  wall  door  was  written,  "Rufus  Clay. 
Cobbler.  Repairs  neatly  executed."  But 
in  a  month  he  found  that  for  trade  he 
might  as  suitably  have  gone  to  a  city  of 
the  dead.  Why  he  had  stayed  on  for  the 
ten  years  nobody  inquired,  and  he  himself 
did  not  seem  to  know.  I  was  told  that  he 
had  a  large  kitchen  garden,  and  sold  some 
of  the  produce  on  the  rare  occasions  when 
anybody  wanted  to  buy.  I  went  in  now 
and  found  him  digging.  I  asked  him  if  he 
could  let  me  have  some  onions.  He  looked 
at  me  without  saying  anything,  did  not 
move  for  a  few  moments,  then  stuck  his 
fork  into  the  ground,  and  pulled  up  as 
many  onions  as  he  could  hold  by  the  tops 
in  two  large  hands,  and  gave  them  to  me. 

"How  much?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  a  penny." 

"Only  a  penny?" 

"It  doesn't  matter.  Tuppence  if  you 
like." 

I  paid  him,  sorry  that  he  had  not  asked 
more.  As  he  put  the  coppers  into  his 
pocket,  he  remarked,  "You're  a  foreigner 
[30] 


Rufus  Clay. 

too,  aren't  you?"  He  said  it  a  little  sadly, 
with  a  touch  of  bitterness. 

"I  suppose  they  would  call  me  that," 
I  answered. 

"Yes,  they  would.  Unnatural  I  call  it." 

"Don't  you  get  on  with  the  folk  here?" 
I  ventured. 

"Get  on— how  the  darnation  can  you 
get  on?  I  don't  know  them,  and  they  don't 
know  me.  Never  will.  It  isn't  civilized." 

"You've  been  here  a  good  many  years 
now,  haven't  you?" 

"Eleven  years  too  long,"  was  the  reply. 
"I'm  a  gowk  to  have  stuck  it." 

I  asked  him  to  have  some  tobacco,  which 
he  did.  I  wondered  why  he  had  stayed  so 
long  if  he  did  not  like  it.  It  seemed  that  in 
the  winter  epidemic  of  19-^-  he  had  lost 
his  wife  and  two  children  at  a  stroke,  and 
had  left  Pinswick  forever.  He  had  settled 
down  into  his  new  quarters  not  hopefully, 
but  without  misgiving.  The  prejudice 
against  "foreigners"  had  surprised  him. 
He  had  no  spirit  to  fight  it,  nor  heart  to 
move  on.  So  that  with  his  few  pence  saved 
and  the  help  of  a  garden  he  had  drifted 
[31] 


Rufus  Clay. 

along  in  a  sullen  but  not  actively  resentful 
lethargy. 

While  we  were  talking,  the  retriever 
that  had  been  on  the  road  with  him  that 
evening  lay  on  the  earth  among  a  not  very 
prosperous  crop  of  cabbages,  at  full 
stretch  in  the  sun.  He  had  taken  no  notice 
of  my  arrival,  but  as  I  bade  Rufus  good- 
day  and  turned  to  go  he  was  at  my  side  in 
an  ins'tant,  spiny-furred  and  growling. 
His  master  called  him  to  heel,  and  as  he 
did  so  the  affection  in  his  voice  was  clear. 
It  was  the  first  sign  he  had  given  of  any 
sustaining  human  warmth.  "He's  ten 
years  old.  He's  all  I've  got,"  he  said. 
"Him  and  high  walls." 

I  found  in  the  village  that  there  was  no 
antagonism  towards  Rufus  Clay.  He  just 
didn't  exist.  What  might  have  happened 
if  he  had  been  the  sort  to  persevere  in  ad- 
vances I  can't  say.  After  the  first  month 
or  two  of  failure  he  had  made  none,  and 
for  all  the  thought  he  was  given  he  might 
as  well  have  been  within  the  churchyard 
walls  as  his  own.  Now  and  again  I  went 
to  him  on  some  small  marketing  errand, 
[32] 


Rufus  Clay. 

and  once  in  a  while  I  would  meet  him  on 
the  road  at  nightfall,  his  gun  on  arm,  and 
his  one  friend  behind  him.  I  never  heard 
his  name  mentioned  but  once.  On  a  late 
August  evening  in  the  Chippendale  Arms 
there  was  a  meeting  to  start  the  local  foot- 
ball club  on  its  way  for  the  coming  season. 
There  was  some  difficulty  in  getting  a 
sufficient  number  of  willing  and  eligible 
people  to  serve  on  the  committee.  During 
a  lull  a  youth,  for  want  of  something  like- 
lier to  suggest,  said,  "What  about  Mr. 
Clay?"  There  was  a  rustle  of  disapproval, 
and  I  thought  I  heard  a  murmur  of  "for- 
eigner" from  the  corner  where  the  chair- 
man,  the  Chippendale  Arms  host,  was 
sitting.  Xo  other  notice  was  taken  of  the 
question. 

Then  once  again  his  name  was  spoken. 
Late  in  the  following  spring  Thesiger 
Crowne,  Tom  Benton,  Isaac  Putcher, 
Rawson  Leaf,  and  myself  with  some 
others  were  standing  by  a  gate  at  the  vil- 
lage end,  gossiping  of  nothing  in  particu- 
lar. Beyond  the  gate  a  path  ran  some 
three-quarters  of  a  mile,  straight  down 
[33] 


Rufus  Clay. 

through  four  meadows,  to  the  bank  of  a 
derelict  canal.  A  few  yards  along  the  bank 
to  the  right  could  be  seen  a  disused  lock. 
As  we  were  talking,  we  saw  the  figure  of 
Rufus  Clay  in  the  distance,  walking  along 
the  bank  with  his  dog,  towards  the  path. 
No  attention  was  paid  until  they  reached 
the  lock  side.  Then  the  retriever  came  to 
a  sudden  halt,  barked  excitedly,  and  in  a 
moment  disappeared  over  the  side.  We 
could  see  the  man's  agitation  even  at  that 
distance,  but  still  the  talk  was  hardly  in- 
terrupted. Then  a  strange  thing  hap- 
pened. Rufus  stood  upright  a  moment, 
seemed  to  quiver,  and  plunged  after  his 
friend.  At  once  we  were  in  full  flight  down 
the  field.  It  was  too  late.  What  had  drawn 
the  dog  in,  whether  a  rat  or  what  else,  no 
one  knew.  But  the  lock  with  its  water  fif- 
teen feet  below  bank  level,  was  a  death 
trap.  Both  dog  and  man  were  past  our 
help.  It  was  an  hour  before  they  could  be 
got  out.  And  then  Thesiger  Crowne  said, 
"A  bad  job  that.  Rufus  Clay.  These  for- 
eigners do  never  learn  their  way  about." 

[34] 


PONY, 

The  Footballer. 


I  DO  not  know  what  his  other  name  was, 
or  even  the  real  one  that  was  given 
him  at  his  christening.  Everyone  in  the 
village  called  him  Pony.  He  was  a  grown 
youth,  twenty  years  or  so  of  age,  large, 
with  a  handsome  face  but  a  rather  dull 
eye.  He  had  assiduity  without  direction. 
[35] 


Pony,  the  Footballer. 


He  was  ostensibly  the  wheelwright's  as- 
sistant, but  he  was  hardly  known  to  assist. 
He  bustled  about  ardently,  but  no  result 
came  of  his  bustling,  as  no  plan  preceded 
it.  If  he  was  sent  out  on  two  errands  he 
would  return  proud  in  the  accomplish- 
ment of  one,  having  forgotten  the  other. 
Like  the  clown  in  the  circus  he  contrib- 
uted an  amiable  disorder  to  the  work  of 
the  world,  but  what  was  art  in  the  clown 
was  nature  in  him.  Being  told  by  his  mis- 
tress to  post  some  letters  and  feed  the 
fowls,  he  deposited  the  letters  in  the  corn- 
bin,  did  his  feeding,  and  went  happily 
home.  His  was  not  the  abstraction  of  the 
poet;  he  just  wasn't  equal  to  the  complex 
demands  of  life.  Friendly,  willing,  honest, 
he  had  neither  initiative  nor  reliability. 
He  was  born  to  sit  in  the  sun,  but,  with  a 
living  to  be  made,  his  best  hope  was  a  job 
with  no  uncertain  humors  in  it,  stone- 
breaking  or  leading  plough. 

To  have  to  do  with  Pony  was  generally 

to  be  vexed  with  him,  yet  nobody  disliked 

him.  Even  liis  master,  who  betongued  him 

in    an   infinite    series    of   terms,    had    no 

[36] 


Pony,  the  Footballer. 


thought  of  dismissing  him.  He  was  glad 
not  to  be  dishked,  and  far  from  indiffer- 
ent to  the  ratings  that  he  daily  earned. 
He  had,  somewhere  in  the  shadows  of  his 
mind,  a  wistful  longing  for  efficiency.  He 
wanted  very  much  to  be  as  clever  as  other 
people,  realizing  forlornly  that  he  never 
could  be.  His  master,  the  masons,  Mr. 
Thorn  the  baker,  Philip  the  shepherd,  who 
always  seemed  to  contrive  a  fold  full  of 
healthy  lambs  at  the  right  time,  Mrs. 
Murgatroyd  at  the  Post  Office,  who  could 
register  letters  and  reckon  up  about  insur- 
ance stamps  and  money-orders,  Roger 
Stone,  who  drove  a  traction  engine — all 
seemed  miracles  of  competence  to  him. 
Watching  them,  he  would  make  little  reso- 
lutions to  himself,  but  they  faded  always. 
Pony  had  heart  but  no  brains,  and  that 
was  an  end  of  it.  Sometimes  his  vagaries 
had  a  spice  of  the  unexpected  in  them,  but 
for  the  most  part  his  was  a  routine  of  un- 
inspired stupidity.  Once  he  got  into  dis- 
grace, when,  with  native  ineptness,  he 
chose  Felicity  Pratt,  the  constable's 
daughter,  for  an  amatory  impulse,  and 
[37] 


Pony,  the  Footballer. 


kissed  her.  His  ears  were  boxed,  but  no 
worse  came  of  it.  He  relapsed  into  his  un- 
easy obscurity.  And  then  his  day  of  glory 
came. 

It  was  a  Saturday  at  the  end  of  Febru- 
ary. An  unwonted  crowd  had  assembled 
on  the  village  football  ground.  The  local 
team  was  to  meet  Edge  Albion,  their 
rivals  from  across  the  valley,  in  the  semi- 
final of  the  Cotswold  Cup.  Not  for  years 
had  athletic  excitement  run  so  high.  Both 
teams  had  had  a  highly  successful  season, 
and  were  neck-and-neck  for  honors  in  the 
Ciceter  League.  The  winners  of  this  after- 
noon's match  were  almost  sure  of  the 
cup,  neither  of  the  other  semi-finalists 
being  fancied  for  a  chance.  It  was  thought 
that  the  advantage  of  ground  would  just 
about  see  the  home  team  through,  but 
half  an  hour  before  the  kick-off  several 
hundred  Edge  supporters  made  it  clear 
that  their  favorites  were  not  going  to  fall 
through  lack  of  support.  At  twenty  min- 
utes past  two  the  Edge  eleven,  in  blue 
jerseys  and  white  shorts,  came  on  to  the 
ground  to  try  their  paces.  They  were 
[38] 


Pony,  the  Footballer. 


greeted  with  a  roar.  Then,  to  a  thunder  of 
cheers,  seven  or  eight  of  the  home  team 
followed,  green  and  black,  and  gave  a 
turn  of  their  quality  at  the  opposite  goal. 
The  ground  was  bubbling  with  excite- 
ment, which  became  particularized  as  it 
was  seen  that  the  home  captain  with  his 
vice-captain  and  another  leader  of  the 
team  were  in  earnest  discussion  with  the 
club  officials  outside  the  wooden  shanty 
that  served  as  pavilion  and  dressing- 
rooms.  A  minute  later  a  rumor  was  flying 
round  the  ground.  Bob  Duckers,  the  inside 
left,  had  suddenly  been  taken  ill  and  could 
not  play.  A  strong  second  eleven  was 
away  from  home,  and  difficult  as  it  was 
to  muster  twenty-two  players  at  any  time, 
there  were  no  reserves.  Consternation  was 
abroad. 

Now,  Pony  was  a  footballer.  Not  that 
he  had  ever  played  in  a  match,  even  for  the 
second  eleven.  But  he  had  cut  down  an 
old  pair  of  trousers,  somehow  come  by  a 
discarded  pair  of  football  boots,  and  every 
Saturday  appeared  on  the  ground,  to  join 
in  the  kick- about  before  the  match  began. 
[39] 


Pony,  the  Footballer. 


Once,  in  a  practice  game  at  the  opening  of 
the  season,  he  had  been  allowed  to  play 
full  back,  when  he  twice  kicked  the  ball 
through  his  own  goal,  and  in  a  collision 
with  his  fellow  back,  who  was  captain  of 
the  first  eleven,  he  brought  that  Olym- 
pian so  heavily  to  the  ground  that  he  was 
unable  to  play  in  the  first  two  matches  of 
the  year.  But,  although  he  could  but  have 
a  stray  kick.  Pony  loved  the  game,  and  he 
eagerly  followed  the  fortunes  of  his  club, 
the  half-crown  subscription  to  which  he 
saved  with  great  diligence  each  summer. 
Every  member  of  the  team  was  to  him  a 
hero  "sans  peur  et  sans  reproche,"  and 
to-day  they  were  all  dedicated  to  a  cause 
in  which  gods  would  be  jealous  to  contend. 
On  so  august  an  occasion.  Pony  had  not 
ventured  on  to  the  playing  area,  but  he 
was  there,  dressed  as  by  habit,  though 
wearing  a  shabby  overcoat  to  hide  what 
he  feared  might  be  taken  as  a  presump- 
tion. As  the  rumor  reached  him,  he  was 
sick  with  apprehension.  Bob  Duckers  was 
one  of  the  cracks ;  this  was  altogether  too 
bad.  He  hated  Edge  more  than  ever.  Then 
[40] 


Pony,  the  Footballer. 


some  nerve  of  almost  dead  ambition  was 
startled  in  him.  i^ittle  by  little  he  sidled 
towards  the  group  of  arguing  players  and 
officials.  He  could  hear  them  talking. 
"We  can't  play  ten  men — it  will  throw  all 
the  balance  out  as  you  might  say."  "It's 
no  good — the  doctor  forbids  it."  "He  were 
perfectly  well  this  morning."  "We  ought 
to  have  scratched  the  second  eleven." 
Pony  was  trembling  as  he  listened.  Then 
the  captain's  eye  fell  on  him.  Something 
was  said,  which  he  could  not  hear.  "Pony," 
the  captain  called  out,  "you'll  have  to 
play."  Then  he  was  instructed.  He  was  to 
be  inside  left,  and  he  was  to  interfere  be- 
tween the  centre  and  the  outside  as  little 
as  possible.  He  took  off  his  coat,  and  went 
on  to  the  field.  As  he  appeared  there  was 
a  shout  of  laughter  from  the  home  specta- 
tors. They  could  laugh  themselves  silly 
for  all  Pony  cared.  He  had  gone  to 
heaven.  He  heard  the  whistle  blow. 

It  was  a  terrific  struggle,  on  a  slow, 
slippery  ground.  Pony  did  as  he  had  been 
told,  and  hardly  touched  the  ball.  At  half- 
time  no  goal  had  been  scored.  The  Edge 
[41] 


Pony,  the  Footballer. 


supporters  were  in  high  spirits.  If  they 
could  make  a  draw  here?  they  were  con- 
fident of  the  result  in  the  re-play  on  their 
own  ground.  Early  in  the  second  half, 
which  began  in  a  light  fog.  Pony  came  to 
grief.  The  left  half  presented  the  inside 
right  with  a  perfect  opening.  The  forward 
was  about  to  take  it,  when  Pony,  who  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  move- 
ment, was  off-side,  and  the  chance  was 
lost.  The  captain  remonstrated,  and  there 
were  angry  ejaculations  round  the  field. 
Then,  a  few  minutes  later,  the  centre  for- 
ward, with  the  ball  at  his  foot,  found  him- 
self beautifully  placed.  He  poised  himself 
to  shoot.  As  he  did  so.  Pony,  who  was  out 
of  position,  dashed,  impelled  by  some 
devil  of  mischance,  excitedly  across  the 
goal  mouth.  The  centre  made  no  mistake; 
the  ball  flew  from  his  foot  far  out  of  the 
goal-keeper's  reach,  driven  towards  the 
open  corner  of  the  net.  Four  yards  from 
the  goal  it  landed  fairly  on  the  small  of 
Pony's  back,  and  bounded  high  over  the 
cross-bar.  An  exasperated  howl,  coming 
from  players  and  spectators  alike,  rose  on 
[42] 


Pony,  the  Footballer. 


the  foggy  air.  Tears  of  rage  were  in 
Pony's  eyes.  He  felt  that  life  was  death 
and  damnation. 

The  game  went  on,  furioush%  and  still 
no  score  was  made.  Ten  minutes  from  time 
a  thicker  bank  of  fog  came  across  the  field, 
and  the  players  flitted  like  phantoms, 
their  movements  drawn,  as  it  seemed  to 
the  spectators,  into  slow,  rhythmic  ab- 
stractions. In  the  higher  circles  of  the 
game,  the  referee  might  have  called  a 
closure,  but  we  do  not  allow  these  niceties. 
Five  more  minutes  passed.  Edge  stock 
was  very  high  indeed.  Then  upon  Pony 
the  glory  descended.  He  seemed  to  be 
alone.  A  few  players,  hardly  distinguish- 
able, drifted  about  the  fringes  of  the  fog- 
ring  that  circled  him.  Suddenly  the  ball 
rolled  before  him,  someone  just  behind  it. 
It  was  the  referee.  Catching  his  foot  on 
the  ground,  Pony  gave  the  ball  a  kick,  so 
that  it  went  a  few  yards  only.  He  ran 
after  it,  and  gave  it  another  kick,  wild 
now,  but  again  mistimed.  Again  he  rushed 
in  pursuit,  and,  as  he  reached  it,  a  figure 
loomed  up  in  front  of  him,  not  three  paces 
[43] 


Pony,  the  Footballer. 


away.  It  was  the  Edge  goal-keeper.  He 
was  aware,  in  that  tremendous  moment, 
of  ranks  of  straining  faces  beyond.  He 
kicked  in  frenzy.  The  goal-keej)er  flung 
himself  at  full  length,  only  to  turn  the 
flight  of  the  ball  a  few  feet  as  it  passed 
into  the  net.  One  of  the  Edge  backs,  fol- 
lowed by  a  medley  of  players,  crashed  into 
Pony,  and  drove  him  back  on  into  a  goal- 
l)ost.  The  referee's  whistle  blew,  and  the 
cries  of  pandemonium  went  up.  The  fog 
was  lifting.  Pony,  stunned  and  shaken, 
was  carried  off  the  field.  The  ball  went 
back  to  the  centre,  was  kicked  off,  and 
time  was  called.  We  had  gone  into  the 
final. 

Pony,  dazed  but  recovering,  was  the 
centre  of  enthusiasm  such  as  was  unknown 
in  the  history  of  the  club.  He  was  carried 
round  the  field,  the  team  singing  behind 
him  that  he  was  a  jolly  good  fellow.  The 
captain  gave  him  a  green  and  black  jersey 
on  the  spot.  The  rector,  who  was  j^resident 
of  the  club,  invited  them  all  to  supper  at 
the  Chippendale  Arms  that  night.  Pony 
was  toasted,  and  was  called  upon  for  a 
[  44] 


Pony,  the  Footballer. 

speech.  He  stood  up,  and  said  that  he 
thought  the  supper  was  a  pretty  good  one, 
and  that  he  hoped  Bob  Duckers  wouldn't 
mind. 

His  glory  did  not  come  again.  In  fact, 
it  was  forgotten  in  a  week  by  all  but  him- 
self. A  fortnight  later  the  final  tie  was 
played  on  a  neutral  ground,  six  miles 
away.  Pony  walked,  wearing  his  colors 
and  the  overcoat.  But  eleven  men  were 
there  this  time.  He  saw  them  win  easily, 
by  five  goals.  He  saw  them  take  the  cup 
away,  and  on  Monday  he  went  to  look  at 
it  in  the  parish  room.  He  stood  in  front  of 
it  for  a  long  time,  by  himself.  And  with 
it  were  eleven  silver  medals,  each  with  a 
name  engraved  upon  it,  but  his  was  not 
among  them. 


[45] 


JOE   PENTIFER 

and  Son. 


THATCH  becomes  rare  in  the  Cots- 
wolds,  the  young  men  finding  it  too 
slow  and  grave  a  craft  to  learn.  Joe  Pen- 
tifer  was  the  last  of  the  great  thatchers. 
His  long,  stormy  beard,  and  his  thick  hair, 
itself  thatchlike,  not  so  much  white-seem- 
ing as  bleached  by  many  winds,  made  him 
[47] 


Joe  Pentifer  and  Son. 


a  figure  such  as  Blake  might  have  added 
to  his  visionary  portraits.  Ezekiel  or 
Aaron  he  should  have  been,  but  he  was, 
he  held,  christened  Joe,  not  even  Joseph. 
He  was  a  slow  philosopher,  mysteriously 
counting  the  numbers  of  the  stars  from 
old  newspaper  cuttings,  or  reminded  by 
the  sickle  that  he  carried  to  his  half-acre  at 
harvest  time  that  life  too  was  but  a  span. 
Then  he  would  be  a  little  prolix,  stroking 
his  beard  with  j)atriarchal  deliberation,  so 
that  people  in  a  hurry  would  avoid  him. 
Whatever  wisdom  may  have  been  within, 
the  world  for  others  did  not  lighten  under 
his  scrutiny,  and  his  discourses,  not  very 
justly  perhaps,  were  commonly  accounted 
dull.  But  no  one  ever  disputed  his  one 
master}^  He  knew  the  ways  of  straw  as 
Praxiteles  did  of  marble  or  Cellini  of  gold 
and  silver.  The  yellow  thatch  worked 
under  his  hands  to  swift  and  even  order, 
material  as  truly  used,  with  a  skill  as  per- 
sonal, humble  though  it  was,  as  that  of 
those  artists  of  a  higher  calling. 

As  he  grew  old,  Joe  left  the  business 
more  to  his  son,  who,  to  his  lifelong  cha- 
[48] 


Joe  Pentifer  and  Son. 


grin,  was  named  Aesop.  His  heir  had 
from  early  youth  been  bred  to  thatching, 
and  had  some  proficiency  in  the  job.  But 
he  was  a  continual  scorn  to  his  father,  who 
was  only  forced  by  the  necessity  of  the 
case  at  length  to  allow  "Joe  Pentifer  and 
Son"  to  appear  on  the  small  bill-headings 
that  a  new  generation  demanded.  Joe  him- 
self had  always  taken  a  pound  a  week  for 
his  work,  never  more  nor  less,  and  word  of 
mouth  and  a  hand  to  hand  transaction  had 
been  good  enough  for  him.  With  the  com- 
ing of  Aesop  the  old  order  had  changed, 
but  Joe  accepted  the  new  ways  without 
ajDproval,  and  partnership  had  no  reality 
for  him.  Aesoj)  was  not  a  bungler,  but  he 
knew  nothing  of  the  secret  magic,  and  his 
father  saw  no  compensation  for  middling 
technique  in  an  increased  wage.  The  dif- 
ference between  the  senior  partner's 
handiwork  and  the  junior's  was  a  thing 
for  fine  perceptions  only.  Aesop,  for  all 
his  father's  care,  was  not  aware  of  it. 
Sometimes  when,  sorely  against  his  will, 
Joe  had  to  relinquish  a  piece  of  work  to 
his  son,  an  untrained  eye,  or  even  a  trained 
[49] 


Joe  Pentifer  and  Son. 


eye  of  the  duller  kind,  would  hardly  detect 
the  transition  from  genius  to  common 
talent.  But  Joe  detected  it,  nor  was  it 
fancifully.  The  difference  was  there,  plain 
enough  to  a  sense  sufficiently  alert.  It  was 
as  David  Cox  to  Tom  Collier,  Worcester 
paste  to  Coalport. 

For  some  time  the  hostility  threw  no 
sparks.  Joe  considered  silk  purses  and 
sows'  ears,  and  gave  up  trying  to  show  the 
duller  wit  of  Aesop  what  it  could  not 
understand.  Aesop  was  aware  of  subtle 
and  unspoken  reproaches,  and  resented 
them,  but  there  was  nothing  he  could 
shape  his  tongue  to.  When  there  w^as  a 
special  piece  of  work  to  be  done,  the  old 
man  kept  control,  deputizing  only  when 
poor  roofs  were  to  be  patched  or  new  ones 
laid  in  secluded  or  impermanent  corners. 
Aesop  could  not  afford  to  quarrel  about 
it.  The  business  was  not  a  rich  one,  but  it 
was  too  good  to  lose,  and  his  father  had 
as  well  a  snug  reserve  of  two  thousand 
pounds  or  so  that  had  drifted  to  him  from 
an  intestate  brother  who  had  gone  to  New 
Zealand  chiefly  because  he  could  not  abide 
[50] 


Joe  Pentifer  and  Son. 


his  family.  So  Aesop  did  not  cultivate 
pride,  being  rather  a  politic  man,  as  was 
remarked  sometimes  at  the  Chippendale 
Arms  when  the  best  was  being  said  of  the 
village.  But  disaster  came  nevertheless. 

Sir  John  Toppingham  was  rebuilding 
his  stables,  and,  because  of  the  latest  in- 
crease in  cost  of  tiling,  decided  for  thatch, 
giving  the  contract  to  Pentifer  and  Son. 
It  was  a  long  row  of  buildings,  forming 
one  boundar}^  of  the  Green  alongside  the 
churchyard,  a  show  site.  Joe  took  the  work 
in  hand  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  carried 
it  on  without  even  consulting  Aesop  until 
two-thirds  of  the  roof  was  done.  Then  he 
slipped  on  the  ladder  and  wrenched  his 
foot.  It  meant  lying  up  for  a  week  or  so, 
and  as  Sir  John  was  in  a  hurry  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  let  Aesop  go  on.  Joe 
had  put  all  his  virtue  into  the  work.  He 
was  getting  old,  and  another  chance  of 
this  size  and  importance  might  not  come 
his  way.  He  had  meant  it  to  be  his  master- 
piece, and  now  ...  It  was  exasperating. 
He  let  Aesop  see  that  it  was  exasperating. 

At  the  end  of  the  fourth  day  he  hobbled 
[51] 


Joe  Pentifer  and  Son. 


out  with  two  sticks.  As  he  came  into  the 
Green  the  morning  sun  was  in  full  flood 
upon  the  bright  straw.  At  once  his  worst 
fears  were  realized.  To  you  and  to  me  the 
thatch  might  have  seemed  to  be  of  a  piece, 
but  to  Joe  Pentifer  the  division  of  Aesop's 
work  from  his  own  was  as  marked  as 
though  someone  had  drawn  a  clear  black 
line  down  the  straw.  He  stared,  and 
Aesop,  busy  on  the  ladder,  did  not  know 
that  he  was  being  watched.  Joe  could  see 
the  fingers  working  wronglj^  with  no 
finesse.  He  loved  thatch,  he  never  knew 
how  much  until  this  moment,  with  the  sun 
showing  what  the  beauty  of  its  perfection 
could  be,  and  Aesop  showing  what  per- 
fection was  not.  For  minutes  he  stared, 
and  then  he  cried  out — "Come  down 
here.  Stand  back  and  look  at  it,  and  be 
ashamed." 

Aesop  looked  round  and  came  down. 
"What's  that  you  say?"  He  had  heard 
plainly  enough,  and  now  resentment  was 
on  top.  "Look  at  it,  and  be  ashamed," 
said  Joe,  lifting  one  of  his  sticks  and 
pointing  with  indignation  at  the  long, 
[52] 


Joe  Pentifer  and  Son. 


glowing  roof.  "Some  folks  can't  tell  be- 
tween thatch  and  stubble,  it  do  seem." 
Aesop  snatched  the  raised  stick  from  Joe's 
hand,  and  laid  it  in  one  sharp  stroke  across 
his  father's  shoulders.  The  old  man  looked 
at  his  son,  saying  nothing,  nearer  to  Blake 
than  ever,  took  back  his  stick,  and  hob- 
bled away.  In  the  evening  Aesop  offered  a 
formal  but  not  insincere  apolog3\  Joe  did 
not  reply. 

Thereafter  the  incident  was  never  re- 
ferred to.  Aesop  did  his  best,  and  Joe 
thought  as  little  of  it  as  formerly.  But 
as  the  senior  partner's  infirmities  grew, 
more  and  more  work  came  necessarily  to 
Aesop's  hand.  A  few  people  observed  a 
lowering  of  the  firm's  standard,  but  by 
most  it  was  unnoted.  Aesop  settled  down 
comfortably  to  authority,  and  cherished 
schemes  of  advancement  when  he  should 
be  sole  proprietor.  There  was  the  two 
thousand  pounds,  and  but  his  mother  to 
share  it  with  him  for  her  lifetime,  he  sup- 
posed, and  one  sister.  There  was  a  hay  and 
corn  business  in  Ciceter  that  might  .  .  . 
These  were  days  now  for  Aesop  with 
[53] 


Joe  Pentifer  and  Son. 


every  prospect  pleasing.  And  then  Joe 
died.  His  will  was  read,  thus — "To  my 
wife,  Sarah,  one  thousand  pounds  and  my 
household  goods,  and  my  two-thirds  share 
interest  in  the  business  of  Pentifer  and 
Son,  for  the  term  of  her  life,  and  there- 
after to  my  daughter,  Ann,  to  whom  also 
I  leave  one  thousand  pounds.  Should  my 
daughter  predecease  my  wife,  Sarah,  then 
these  bequests  shall  pass  to  my  nephew, 
Barnabas  Pentifer.  And  to  my  son, 
Aesop,  I  bequeath  the  stick  with  which  he 
beat  his  father." 


[54] 


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